Although it was so brilliantly fine - the blue sky powdered with gold and great
spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques - Miss Brill
was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you
opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of
iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting - from
nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear
little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box
that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed
the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said
the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from
the red eiderdown! ... But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't
at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind - a little dab of
black sealing-wax when the time came - when it was absolutely necessary ...
Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its
tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap
and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from
walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad - no, not
sad, exactly - something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.

There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday.
And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun.
For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was
never the same. It was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it
didn't care how it played if there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the
conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with
his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen
sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now
there came a little "flutey" bit - very pretty! - a little chain of bright
drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and
smiled.

Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his
hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting
upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak.
This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the
conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as
though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a minute
while they talked round her.

She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last
Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife,
he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the
whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but
that it was no good getting any; they'd be sure to break and they'd never keep
on. And he'd been so patient. He'd suggested everything - gold rims, the kind
that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would
please her. "They'll always be sliding down my nose!" Miss Brill had wanted to
shake her.

The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was always
the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and the band
rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to buy a
handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the railings.
Little children ran among them, swooping and laughing; little boys with big
white silk bows under their chins, little girls, little French dolls, dressed up
in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into
the open from under the trees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down "flop,"
until its small high-stepping mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its
rescue. Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly
always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and - Miss Brill had often noticed - there
was something funny about nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all
old, and from the way they stared they looked as though they'd just come from
dark little rooms or even - even cupboards!

Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and
through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined
clouds.

Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they
laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women with funny straw
hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold, pale
nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and dropped her bunch of violets,
and a little boy ran after to hand them to her, and she took them and threw them
away as if they'd been poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill didn't know whether to
admire that or not! And now an ermine toque and a gentleman in grey met just in
front of her. He was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine
toque she'd bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her
face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in
its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she
was so pleased to see him - delighted! She rather thought they were going to
meet that afternoon. She described where she'd been - everywhere, here, there,
along by the sea. The day was so charming - didn't he agree? And wouldn't he,
perhaps? ... But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great
deep puff into her face, and even while she was still talking and laughing,
flicked the match away and walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled
more brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she was feeling
and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat, "The Brute! The
Brute!" over and over. What would she do? What was going to happen now? But
as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised her hand as though she'd
seen some one else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the
band changed again and played more quickly, more gayly than ever, and the old
couple on Miss Brill's seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old man
with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked
over by four girls walking abreast.

Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting here,
watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could
believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't till a little brown
dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a little "theatre" dog,
a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss Brill discovered what it was that
made it so exciting. They were all on the stage. They weren't only the
audience, not only looking on; they were acting. Even she had a part and came
every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn't been there;
she was part of the performance after all. How strange she'd never thought of
it like that before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of starting
from home at just the same time each week - so as not to be late for the
performance - and it also explained why she had quite a queer, shy feeling at
telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No wonder!
Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage. She thought of the
old invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper four afternoons a week
while he slept in the garden. She had got quite used to the frail head on the
cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If
he'd been dead she mightn't have noticed for weeks; she wouldn't have minded.
But suddenly he knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! "An
actress!" The old head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes.
"An actress - are ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were
the manuscript of her part and said gently; "Yes, I have been an actress for a
long time."

The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they played
was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill - a something, what was it? -
not sadness - no, not sadness - a something that made you want to sing. The
tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss Brill that in
another moment all of them, all the whole company, would begin singing. The
young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together, they would begin, and
the men's voices, very resolute and brave, would join them. And then she too,
she too, and the others on the benches - they would come in with a kind of
accompaniment - something low, that scarcely rose or fell, something so
beautiful - moving ... And Miss Brill's eyes filled with tears and she looked
smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we
understand, she thought - though what they understood she didn't know.

Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old couple had
been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The hero and heroine,
of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And still soundlessly singing,
still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to listen.

On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker's. It was
her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not.
It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was like carrying home a
tiny present - a surprise - something that might very well not have been there.
She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite a
dashing way.

But to-day she passed the baker's by, climbed the stairs, went into the little
dark room - her room like a cupboard - and sat down on the red eiderdown. She
sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of was on the bed.
She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without looking, laid it inside.
But when she put the lid on she thought she heard something crying.